


death thrice drawn

by kingofghosting



Series: burn pygmalion- a better guide to romance [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Martin Blackwood, Autistic Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Dialogue Heavy, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, No beta we die like archival assistants, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, The Magnus Archives Season 1, Trans Martin Blackwood, Worms, marchivist, swap au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25460098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingofghosting/pseuds/kingofghosting
Summary: It was a quiet day in the Magnus Institute when Elias Bouchard had called Martin Blackwood into his office. Martin wasn’t a troublemaker of any sort, but it wasn’t like he was new to the job and messed up somehow. He had constantly checked in with his superiors while he was ordered to find books or label things, making sure he was doing it right. He didn’t expect that he had done anything wrong.However, he didn’t expect to be getting a promotion, either.-----an au in which martin is the archivist, along with multiple other switches and swaps. previously titled "sucks to be an optimist in this listless dissolution"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: burn pygmalion- a better guide to romance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844143
Comments: 24
Kudos: 55





	1. collision catalyst

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [the magnus archives](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/654106) by jonathan sims. 



When it came to working at the Magnus Institute, things often fell into the same routine cycle. Get there, have your superiors ask you to do things, get a thirty-minute break, work for another four hours, and then go home. This wasn’t any different for Martin, as he was currently at the start of his thirty-minute break.

He let the tap water fill the kettle, watching it carefully and making sure it filled exactly to the mental line he had memorized so long ago. Putting the kettle on the stove to boil, listening to his coworkers chat absentmindedly. 

“I mean, it doesn’t make _sense,_ Sasha!” A tall, built man threw his hands up in frustration.

“It doesn’t _have_ to make sense, Tim. It’s a children’s movie.” The woman, Sasha, pinched the bridge of her nose.

“And what, I’m supposed to just _believe_ that Rapunzel’s parents just lost their kid and said, ‘Welp! Tough for us, I guess.’”

A man brooding over an empty coffee mug shook his head. “They _did_ look for her, Tim. They just couldn’t find her because the tower was so well hidden.”

“It was _their_ kingdom, Jon! How could they have _not known_ about a mysterious tower! It was huge!”

Sasha objected, “They didn’t have anything to see it with! It was surrounded on all sides by shrubs and cliffsides and trees!”

With a knock upon the doorframe and an abrupt “Ahem,” Martin nearly jumped out of his skin. All four turned their attention to the man standing in the doorway.

Elias Bouchard, the head of the Magnus Institute, was a man that Martin had only spoken to a few times after he was hired. Elias had been the one to interview him, and the entire time it felt… wrong. Lying in a job interview was something Martin wasn’t proud of, but something he found himself doing often. And when he was with Elias, it was just something that just… happened. Lie, after lie, after lie, just tumbling out of his mouth like it was one of those endless handkerchiefs that magicians can just have stored in their tiny itty bitty pockets. 

“Ah, sorry to disturb you all on your break. I was just wondering, Martin, could I borrow you for a moment? I promise it will be quick. Meet me in my office.” Without much room for thought or comments, Elias turned and headed down the hall. 

Martin blinked as the attention of the other three assistants turned to him. He ran over the past few days in his head, trying to recall times he had run across Elias, or times that he had messed up and didn’t tell anyone. He wasn’t necessarily a mischievous person- unlike Tim and Sasha, who were almost always goofing around- and he was very careful to make sure he never made a noticeable mistake. He recalled multiple instances where he had asked his superiors if he was labeling things correctly or times even where his coworkers had complimented him on his organization and speed. Besides, Elias was seemingly in a good mood. So Martin couldn’t _possibly_ be in trouble, right? He glanced between his coworkers, who all seemed to be looking at him with apprehension. 

With a deep breath and an apology to the kettle that he now had to leave unattended, he headed into the halls of the archive and, eventually, into Bouchard’s office.

With a click of the door, Martin feels the weight of Elias’ eyes bore into him. He shivered, suppressing the discomfort.

“You asked to see me?” 

“Martin Blackwood. You haven’t happened to see the head archivist around, have you?” Elias asked, one hand clasped over the other.

Martin thought for a moment, before shaking his head. Is this a test? “No sir, I haven’t. I thought I overheard Rosie talking about how he’s possibly… missing?”

Elias nodded. “Yes, Jurgen Leitner is currently missing. I, unfortunately, am incredibly swamped in paperwork, and the Institute desperately needs an archivist.”

“Okay? Why do you…” Martin blinked, words catching in his throat. “You… You aren’t serious, are you?” 

With a small chuckle, Bouchard leaned back in his swivel chair. “I am indeed serious, Martin. I think you would make a spectacular head archivist. You’re okay with this promotion, right?”

Thoughts raced in Martin’s mind as his mouth turned to the Sahara. He couldn’t grasp a single notion as he struggled to find words to describe his mountain of a mind. _“Why me?” “Are you sure?” “What about the others?” “Are you aware I lied on my application?”_ He didn’t say a word. His boss smiled.

“Great! If you’d like to bring some assistants with you into the archival staff, I can have some of the others bring their stuff downstairs and move them into the offices. I’m glad you’ve accepted your position, Martin. It’s essential that you help us.”

Martin found himself turning and walking outside the office, seemingly on autopilot. He shut the door behind him, walked into the breakroom, and sat down, feeling completely numb as Elias’ words echoed in his mind. He didn’t even notice his name being called by his coworker.

“Martin? Hey. Martin. Hello? Did he drug you while you were in there or something? What happened?”

Martin was quickly brought back to reality as he looked up from his slumped position on the breakroom couch. Standing above him was his coworker, Tim. He had a warm, worried look on his face, his head slightly tilted to the side. If Martin wasn’t still in a state of shock, he would have said that the fluorescent lights making Tim glow from behind made him look absolutely ethereal. 

He blinked and shook his head. “Uh. No no, I’m fine. I just, uh. I got a promotion, is all.”

Tim’s eyes lit up with excitement, grabbing Martin’s hand and pulling him up. Martin yelped softly as Tim pulled him into a tight hug.

“Oh, Martin! I’m so happy for you! A promotion is a big deal, no wonder you seem so shocked! But don’t look so down about it, that’s great! What position did you get? Oh gosh, you aren’t my boss now, are you?”

Martin blinked. “No, well. Maybe? I… I’m the head archivist.”

Tim’s face faltered, only for a second. “Wait, like… The head archivist-head archivist? Like, taking statements from old loons, archivist? Mr. Leitner’s position?” He blinked. “Oh shit, are the rumors about the old man going missing _true?_ How long has he even been gone for?”

Martin shrugged. “I- I don’t know! Apparently long enough for them to need a new archivist!”

“And they picked… you?” Tim’s eyes widened as he realized what he said. “No, wait, that’s not what I meant. It’s just-”

“No, No, you’re right. There are people _way_ more qualified than _me_ of all people! I mean, Jon, Sasha… I don’t understand why he picked _me._ ”

“Well, that makes two of us. But hey, don’t worry Marto! I’m sure things will work out just fine. If Elias thought you fit the job, then good on ya! I’m happy you got the position.” Tim placed his hand on Martin’s shoulder, who shifted awkwardly under his touch. Tim immediately retracted his hand, “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s fine, Tim. Just uh… Please, ask before you touch me? I know, it’s weird, but I’m just. I don’t do… touch. Well.”

Tim nodded, holding his hands up in mock-defense. “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t know, but I’ll make sure not to let it happen again. You just got a promotion! I don’t want to make you even more overwhelmed.”

Martin smiled softly, before hit with a realization. “Oh! Tim, I just remembered. Uh. Do you… Do you want to help me?”

He tilted his head. “Of course, but uh. Exactly what is it I’m helping you with?”

“Uh… Well, I need people to help me downstairs. With research and following up on stuff. I guess being an archivist comes with… help?”

Tim scoffed playfully, “Oh, you’re asking me to be your _assistant?_ You’ve been an archivist for two minutes, and you’re already deep in the pits of power?”

“No, no!” He shook his head wildly. “That’s not what I meant. I just thought that you, and Sasha, and Jon, would be really nice to have around and--”

“Ohhhh. I get it,” Tim smirked, “You need some ‘help’ with your new ‘position.’” Martin was confused until he winked, shooting finger guns.

“Oh my GOD, TIM. You’re the _worst!_ ” he sputtered, face burning hot. Tim merely laughed at his suffering.

“Kidding, kidding! I’ll go ask Sasha and Jon about helping. Good luck with your new job, Boss!” Tim waltzed out of the room, his warm energy staying and wrapping around Martin. He _really_ hoped being the Head Archivist wouldn’t mess up his relationships with his coworkers.

_Only time will tell, I suppose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to make it a tiiiny bit more clear!  
> martin is the archivist, and jurgen leitner was his predecessor!


	2. have you got a clue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> martin reevaluates his relationship with one of his coworkers.

Watching the grass grow was an easy thing to do when it got your mind off the pressing weight of your new job. As winter turns to spring, and life begins to flourish once again, it's easy to forget that death approaches us slowly, every second that passes by.

It was five in the morning last time Martin had checked his phone, and the archivist had not gotten an inch of sleep. He was exhausted, but sleep simply would not find him. He didn't know if it was the fact that he had been living on caffeinated beverages for the past three days, or if it was because the weight and severity of the statements he had been promoted to read were taking a mental toll on him.

They weren’t that bad. Not really. Sure there were a few that made his skin crawl, but there were also a few that made no sense in being true. Sure, seeing a creeper in an alleyway is normal, and unfortunately, kidnappings are somewhat common. Identities being stolen and completely wiped out, however, is something that just didn't make any sense. Seven billion people in the world and only one of them remembers a person who didn’t exist?

Suddenly there was an alarm going off, Martin fumbling with his phone to shut it up. Even after that, his ears were still ringing. Oh shit. When was it… He didn’t remember falling asleep, but it doesn’t make sense for it to just go from 5 in the morning to 8 with no warning. With a sigh and a shrug, Martin decided three hours of sleep was enough and started to get ready for the long day ahead of him. 

\---

“Any updates on the Robins?” 

Jon shook his head. “Same as last time Martin. No real credential reports of the books, just people who seem to ‘hunt’ for them. There was a small circle of people who were selling them I believe, but that was in late 2007, and I haven’t been able to find much more since. I’ve also checked in every library record’s database to see if I can find anything like the Ex Altiora or any other Robins, but to no avail.”

Martin nodded as Jon talked, finding himself stuck in a limbo of sorts. He desperately needed to hear what was being said, but he had a tendency to become captivated with the other’s looks. And his… everything, honestly. The way he talked was just. ... Hypnotizing. And he was so smart, despite all the dumb choices he made staying at work too late, or not sleeping enough, or overworking himself. Love at first sight was a term that Martin didn’t like to use, but it was the only descriptor he could think of when he thought of Jon. He could tell there was a lot of potentials that Jon held back behind his professional “no-nonsense” facade. Martin was curious if that was part of the reason Jon hadn’t gotten the position. Elias hadn’t really talked much about it, but it wasn’t something Martin wanted (or was ready) to question. But he definitely thought that Jon was a little more qualified than he was. Not the most capable, of course, that title went to Sasha without a doubt. Everyone in the archives knew she deserved the job, but no one wanted to speak up to Elias. Martin didn’t blame them. Elias kind of sucked.

“Thank you for the help, Jon. I  _ really  _ appreciate it. Seriously.”

Jon shrugged half-heartedly. “I’m just doing my job, Martin. Somebody here has to be competent.” He rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his computer and tapping away on his keyboard.

With another nod, Martin turned and headed back to the archivist’s office. As he sat down, he held his face in his hands and thought to what Jon said. That was the one downside to his crush on Jon- He obviously had no interest in Martin, based on the horrible way he treated the other. He was probably more resentful because of the promotion, but it wasn’t like Martin had  _ asked  _ for the job. It was entirely Elias’s decision, and Martin shouldn’t let Jon hurt his feelings for something that was out of his control. 

There was a quiet knock at Martin’s door, and before he could rub his watery eyes, the door creaked open slowly. 

“Martin? Sorry to bother you- Are you alright?”

Martin shook his head and quickly dabbed at his eyes with his sweater sleeves. “Y- Yes, Sasha, I’m fine. How can I help you?”

“Uh, no,” She scoffed, “Something’s wrong. Come on! Talk to me.” 

He took a deep breath as she sat down across from him. 

“It’s… it’s nothing, Sasha. I just,” he sighs. “I don’t know. Emotions are weird. What he said wasn’t even that big of a deal, but it just. It hurt me. And I know that’s stupid because it’s  _ Jon,  _ he’s just  _ like that, _ but it still. Ugh.”

Sasha shook her head. “I get it, Martin. That’s just Jon for you, but it doesn’t make it right. He’s got his own stuff going on, I think. He just doesn’t know how to cope with it, so he shuts out everyone who wants to help. And he  _ knows  _ you want to help, and that’s the biggest reason why he’s so cold to you.”

“That doesn’t make sense though, Sasha! I mean, why would you cut out someone who wants to help you! Someone who wants to help you, and cares about you, and would walk one million miles through the apocalypse for you-- Why would you cut them out of your life? Why would you push them away?”

“Because they’re not used to that kind of affection and care?” Sasha shrugged. “I mean, Martin, look at Jon. I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but he doesn’t seem like the type to just. … He doesn’t seem like he got a lot of positive affirmation growing up, you know? I care about Jon. I love him a lot, I think he’s a good coworker an amazing friend. But I also think that he’s as blind to the world as you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _ Shoot.  _ Uh. Nothing!” Sasha stood up suddenly, backing away.

“No, Sasha, what do you mean I’m ‘blind to the world’?”

“Well, uh… No offense, but you… well… you’re kind of oblivious to certain things? Which, isn’t a problem or anything! It’s just something I’ve noticed. Like those sticky notes that kept appearing on your desk that so obviously had Tim’s handwriting.”

“That was Tim? Oh. Oh, wait. Shit, well, that doesn’t mean I’m  _ oblivious!  _ I got this job, I’m obviously somewhat qualified. And this conversation isn’t even about me, it’s about  _ Jon. _ ”

“I mean, to be honest Martin, it was about  _ your  _ relationship with Jon. But I get it. I didn’t mean to call you oblivious, you’re a lot more than that. I just meant it’s a quality you and Jon share. He’s in his own little head, and I think it’s hard for him to recognize when he’s being rude. Jon means well, though, Martin. Don’t let his negativity get in your head. Try to think about the positives when he’s being mean! Like how he…. Uh.… I don’t really know what you see in him, but think about that. Do you want some tea, Martin?”

He smiled softly. “No, thank you though, Sasha. Oh, speaking of the whole sticky note incident, have you seen Tim? I haven’t seen him today.”

“Did you not get his message? He texted me yesterday saying he’s got a bug.”

“Oh no, poor guy. I didn’t get his message, but I assume that he’ll be back when he’s better. It sure is weird, Tim  _ never  _ gets sick. I hope he’s alright.”

“Me too, honestly. He must have it bad, too, because he didn’t sound like himself. No string of emojis, no hearts, no ‘luv u babey,’ nothing. Look.”

Sasha pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it to Martin.

  
  


**mr stokes** ❣❣❣

**Yesterday, at 6:52**

**>** i have a bug.

a bug? like, a sick bug?  **<**

**> ** yes.

oh no !!! get well soon, stokes! ily!!!  **<**

**Read, 7:00**

“Jeez. That is pretty weird.” Martin handed Sasha’s phone back to her.

“Right? I’m sure he’s fine, but I’m just a little worried.” She sighed as she slipped her phone back in her pocket. “I’m sure he’s alright. Just a bit nervous, is all. I need to get back to work though, I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Love you, Martin!” Sasha smiled brightly as she walked out.

“Ah- Love you too, Sash.” Martin sighed, opening the file that Elias had put on his desk. “Alright, let’s see….

“Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 9991006. Statement of Sebastian Adekoya, regarding a new acquisition at Chiswick Library, original statement given June 10th, 1999.”

He took a deep breath. “Statement begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its a bit shorter and is just some character analysis / bonding, but i hope you all enjoy ! next chapter... well, you'll see :D


	3. callow uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s really only one thing that irks me about Ms. Kelly’s statement. I mean, okay, the whole statement gives me goosebumps, but with the research I’ve done, there’s one thing that sticks out to me. If she is recalling correctly and the instructor who guided Robert really is Harriet Fairchild, well. It’s possible that she is related to Simon Fairchild, who’s been mentioned in--”
> 
> The door swings open with a thud, as someone collapses in and knocks over the chair opposite of Martin’s desk.
> 
> Martin yelped. “What the hell?! Tim?”
> 
> Behind him, he sees something trailing behind. Something that makes an awful, terrible squelching sound as it moved.
> 
> “What in the world? What are the- oh! Oh shit!”

After squishing the silvery dark worms that had followed Tim into the archival office, Martin sat him down and made tea for him. He looked… Bad. Like, really bad. Incredibly horribly awfully bad. Shaken from whatever had followed him. When Martin handed him the cup, he downed it in a matter of seconds. His hair was unkempt, his eyebags deep, and his clothes had no way of matching. It was all so very _wrong_.

“Martin, you… you record statements, right? That’s like… your thing?”

“Uh… Yeah, I guess if you boil it down to the bare essentials, that’s—“

“Get your tape recorder. Please.” Martin raised a confused eyebrow at Tim’s words, before nodding and hurriedly pressing the record button on the recorder.

**_[Click.]_ **

“Tim are you sure about this? I mean, you—“

“I’m fine, Martin. I want to make a statement about this. It’s what we _do,_ right?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but we also research statements for credibility, and, well….”

“Are you saying I’m not credible, Martin?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Martin shifts uncomfortably. 

“Sorry. I know you aren’t saying that. I just… I just need a record of it. And I don’t trust the police will do anything about it.”

“Yeah, Yeah. I get it. Alright, uhh…

“Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0161203. Statement of Timothy Stoker, regarding…”

“A worm infestation. And possibly a close encounter with the woman known as Jane Prentiss.”

“Shit, Jane Prentiss? Sorry- Uh. Statement begins.”

“Well, a few weeks ago- I can’t remember exactly when, I lost track of time- you were working on a statement from Carlos Vittery. You had asked Jon to do it, but he had seemed really reluctant, so I stepped in and said I’d go. He’s never liked spiders, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. He sees one and he takes whatever measures he can to kill it. I don’t mind ‘em. I mean, they’re kind of freaky, but it’s not something Timothy Stoker can’t handle. Plus, the way that the guy died- cased in webs, is what the statement said- well, that just seems impossible. At the very least, not normal. I wanted to see it for myself anyway. Curiosity killed the cat, am I right?

“So you told me where it was, gave me directions to Boothby Road, and I walked there. It was midday I believe, maybe 2 pm by the time I got there. Still not many people on the roads. Found it easily enough. In the statement, Vittery said something about a big door, and there’s the big door. Tried the handle, it’s locked. No big deal. Ring the buzzer, no response. It’s weird because it’s 2 pm, but I guessed that people must just be at work still or just not home. Not a big deal, except that it kind of is. I didn’t want to just come back empty-handed, even though I know you wouldn’t make too much of a big deal out of it. It wouldn’t have made sense for me to step up and take the opportunity and then come back to work with _nothing._ So, I waltz around to see if there’s another way in. Out of the corner of my eye I see it- a basement window that’s cracked open. Perfect, right?

“Except it’s not really. It wasn’t the basement that caught my eye- The first thing I saw was something I assumed to be a loose bent nail or a screw or something. I went down to pick it up, in case someone were to walk their dog or something, and it didn’t get stepped on. But right when my hand was inches away from it, it moved. It’s a worm, but nothing like I’ve seen. I mean, you saw them. I was so tired, I didn’t even realize there were a few that followed me. I was so focused on getting here, I…. I’m sorry for letting them follow me. I’m getting off track, sorry. The worm was about an inch long, like this? The body was half silver, the other half that almost looked…. Burnt…. Uh, anyway. It moved when I had gotten my hand too close, and it squirmed toward me in this gross, eerie contorted way. I don’t really like killing bugs, but I have never moved so fast to stomp on something. It popped under my boot like an egg, and this black sludgy slime oozed from under where I stepped.

“These are my favorite boots, so I take the obvious precautions of cleaning off my shoe and checking around for more of those gross worms. Didn’t see any, so I decided it was time to get to work and commit some crimes. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve broken some sort of policy to get information. I’ll be honest, I’m not claustrophobic or anything, but crawling through that window was tough. Like, I’m a pretty tall guy, I’ve got some pretty broad shoulders. But it wasn’t even my size that bothered me- I guess it was just the memories of breaking through windows. That, uh. That’s beside the point, I don’t know why I mentioned that. Sorry. Uh. Anyway, I drop down into the basement of these freaky ass apartments. Didn’t hurt myself, if that’s what you’re wondering. I think the basement was part of the entire building, but I really couldn't see anything because of how dark it was.

“I pulled out my phone and flipped the torch on. I remember I was a little confused, considering the sun was still up, but I guess the angle of the sun and the height of the window didn’t properly align. That didn’t matter. The room was musty, almost suffocating. I started from the top, trailing my flashlight from the ceiling, against the walls, and to the floor. The corners did have a significant amount of spiderwebs in them, the light fixtures on the ceiling also coated in the silvery webs. They weren’t fresh, not to my knowledge, but they were just X’s in a checkbox at first. Nothing much of note, to my dismay. The vibes I got were still pretty spooky, but I was almost deceived into thinking I broke the law for no reason. Then, there was movement, on the other side of the basement.

“Honestly, looking back on it, it was faint. Quiet. I guess I was just straining my senses so hard, desperately searching for something of note, that I heard it. I didn’t want to check it out, but I got this far. I know, it was stupid. That’s how every horror movie starts and the character dies horribly. But I’m already the protagonist of life, what’s a little bit of Final-Boy action?” He chuckles softly. “Stupid idiot.”

“I… I called out. I asked who was there- What was there. My movements were slow, and I tried to calculate every step like I was in a minefield, but I realized that my torch’s light wouldn’t travel as far as I needed it to. I almost thought maybe I imagined it, like how you sometimes hear your name being called like a whisper on the wind. I was close to leaving when my torch fell upon a… a woman. It was painfully obvious she wasn’t supposed to be there. She had her back to me, just... Balled in the corner. Her hair was knotted and dirty, I couldn’t tell if the black was her natural hair color or if it was just that disgusting. The trenchcoat she wore was ragged and filthy, the warm gray being stained into a dirty beige.

“I jumped slightly as she jerked her hand to her mouth and coughed. Or at least, it sounded like a cough. Like the coughs that are wet and sickly and riddled with disease, the kind that tells you that your grandpa is on the edge of death. I moved, slightly, taking a small step towards her. It was stupid, I know that, but I asked her if she was alright. I thought maybe she had gotten trapped down here, and she was sick, or homeless, or something. Something black and silvery fell from the handkerchief she coughed into, and it squirmed towards me when it hit the floor.

“She whipped her head to look at me, and my stomach didn’t drop at the loud crack that rang out when she turned. It was her… her face. We made eye contact, and I felt like my soul was leaving my body. I froze. Her eyes were sunken in, but not like Jon’s. Her skin was rotting, holes in her face where I think strong cheekbones once stood prominently. I forgot to breathe, and she… she smiled at me. I couldn’t move, and I was sure that maybe she’d take a step towards me. But she didn’t. She just smiled, her black hair framing her face in a way that was just _wrong._ I didn’t notice she had dropped her overcoat until it hit the floor, the only sound besides my- her-... Our ragged breathing.

“Her skin was… well… it was pale, and gray, but also a sickly green? And it… it had holes... in it. Not like, not like the holey scars you get from acne, but like… honeycombs, or anthills. And the… the worms from before were just… all over her… crawling, and squirming, in and out, and I… I repressed the urge to vomit. She saw it, I think. She inched towards me and when she moved, worms fell from her exposed skin and onto the concrete floor. They came at me with such speed, I… I dropped my phone, and I ran. I ran to the stairs that brought me up to the ground-level floor, and I ran. 

“I fumbled with the door, and I ran all the way to the subway station, the Underground? I don’t really pay attention to names. That was the closest one to Boothby that still took me home. I considered walking home but… the sun was going down, and it would’ve been pitch dark by the time I got to my house. So I took the train. There were other people there, that made me feel a bit better, and I didn’t sit down. I talked to an old woman, just having casual conversation. Trying to calm myself down. I ended helping her out, because our stops were the same. Didn’t catch her name. Don’t really care.

“I got home, went inside, locked every door I could think to lock, made sure all my windows were shut tight, and I passed out on the couch. I think it was eight PM when I fell asleep? I didn’t have my phone, I realized, and I don’t have any real other means of communication. Well, I had my laptop, but… I was exhausted. I don’t think you blame me for that.

“It was one in the morning when the knocking started. I tried to sleep through it, my autopilot-brain writing it off as salesmen. But I glanced at the clock and realized no one should be awake at this time. And the knocking… It was slow, and deliberate. Most salesmen ring my bell or something. But this… This wasn’t a salesman. I knew that. It came back quickly. I ran over my options, trying to write it off as delusions, but it was clear it wasn’t a dream. Of course it wasn’t, why would it be?

“I have never been more glad to learn that having an analog clock can come in handy, because I reached to flip my little tableside lamp over, but.. Nothing. I got up and tried the light switch, to no avail. My power was out, and it was pitch black in my house. The only real light was from the streetlamps outside, but they were… wrong. Too… I wouldn’t call them Dim, because they weren’t dim. But they were… darker? I don’t know. I just remember it was dark. But I knew my house pretty well, I remembered where things were and where they should’ve been if I couldn’t find them. 

“I was already up, so I thought I might should open this door, make sure it wasn’t someone trying to escape a robbery or something. But… All of the little details added up. The lights, the weird lack of rhythm, the fact that it was one in the morning… I thought back to the woman, and realized she looked _exactly_ like how the statements describe Jane Prentiss. Well, I honestly didn’t expect her to look so… well… like _that_ . I was expecting a, I dunno, someone a little more… Attractive? Like, the description of how she wore a ‘red dress,’ and I was like, ‘Wow she must, get it, like at least a _little bit_ ,’ right? Anyway. I had already decided that it was a no-way on opening the door, but… Then one of those silvery worms made it through a crack underneath my door, and I knew. I crushed it, but it got in my welcome mat, and now I think that was something that slowed it down. The rug. They move faster on solid ground, I think? I don’t know. It’s just a concept.

“Honestly, I don’t know if I handled it well. It all happened so fast. I used my rug to clog the door as much as I could, and then ran upstairs to get more towels to plug up the cracks. Washcloths, handkerchiefs, anything that was somewhat thick would go right where I thought the smallest of worms could get through. And then I... I waited. I sat on my ass, right by the door, and I waited. I didn’t know what else to do. Worms covered my windows, or I’d look out and I’d see her standing there, just… Waiting. I couldn’t do anything. My power was out, my laptop was dead, my phone was in the hands of that- that thing.

“I was there for… Thirteen days, I think. Roughly. I’d think that maybe it’d be safe to leave, and I’d start picking up stuff to go, and then the knocking would come back. The water supply didn’t go out, which I guess is a good thing, so I didn’t go thirsty. I didn’t really want to waste any time though, so I spent most of my days watching the door and biting into uncooked ramen. It’s so much better when it’s not raw. I will never dishonour anyone’s cooking ever again. 

“Honestly I think the worst of it was the fact that there was nothing to do. I didn’t really want to keep my eyes off the door, just in case Prentiss wanted to try anything. Sleeping wasn't an option either, because as soon as I’d close my eyes or start to relax, I’d feel something crawling on me and I’d have to check. Nothing was ever there, of course. Sometimes I’d finally drift to sleep, and then the bastard woman would start her knocking. I tried to remember any important information from the statements you’ve shown me, but… It never helped.

“You know, I tried to strike a conversation up with her every once in a while. I avoided the obvious, ‘Why are you doing this’ bull, and tried to ask her about her hobbies. Tried to talk to whatever was still human. But when I looked at her through my door’s peephole, I… I think she had a hole in her throat. Or, well, she had a lot of holes in her. But I think whatever is infesting in her body… It didn’t leave any room for a voice. She never tried to break my windows or door, either. She just knocked. I think it was a tactic to get my guard down.

“When I woke up this morning… She was gone. I can’t remember many details, because I saw an opportunity to leave and I took it without a second thought. The grime wasn’t as prominent on my windows, and the sounds… The knocking wasn’t always there in the first place, but deep down there was always this... squelching noise. It drove me _insane_. But… It wasn’t there this morning. So I ran. I don’t know why my first instinct was to come here, but… I did.”

Martin let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Statement… Statement ends. Tim, are you…. Are you alright?” 

Tim laughed softly. “What do you _think_?”

“Right. Sorry.”

“I didn’t know they were trailing me. I guess it makes sense, considering I left without _really_ checking if the worms were gone. Sorry for getting them in your carpet.” Tim rubbed the back of his neck. He looked so _tired._

“Oh, it’s alright. Um, Tim... “ Martin thought for a moment, not wanting to say anything stupid. “There’s a room in the archives that Jon uses when he stays in too late. I… I think you should stay there, for now.”

“What, are you asking me to sleep in the archives?” Tim asked, eyebrow quirked in suspicion. 

“Well… yes? I’d offer my flat, but it’s already stuffy as is, and my bed is quite small, but that’s beside the point. The spare room has a couch and a table and it’s well sealed, supposedly has humidity control, all that junk. I’ll talk to Elias and get some kind of security system in order, or at least have him tell me what security we already have.” 

Tim’s shoulders relaxed, and he nodded. “Are you… Are you sure, Martin? I don’t want to be intruding on your space. What is Jon going to think with me using his space?”

“Tim, I want you to be safe. Knowing that I put you in danger… It doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to Jon, and we’ll get it settled. Besides, he isn’t my boss. Quite the opposite, honestly.”

“Oh?” It was nice to see Tim’s grin creep back onto his face, even though Martin knew well enough that he had made a mistake in his words. “I see how it is. I’m gone for thirteen days, and you and Jon get together, huh?”

Martin sputtered, almost knocking over his tea. It was the last thing he had expected Tim to say. “What?! How- You- What???”

“Oh, don’t worry, Martin. I won’t tell anyone.” Tim winked.

“We are _not_ together, Tim,” Martin managed, his face burning. 

“There’s a yet at the end of that sentence!” He laughed, “What, so your power get to your head? Gonna use your position to taunt him?” 

“No, I’m just going to tell him that you’re staying in the archives temporarily--” Martin jolted as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, brows furrowing at the notification.

Tim perked up, stretching to peek at Martin’s phone. “Who’s that?”

Martin’s eyes scanned the message again. “You.” Before Tim could process it properly, Martin was handing him the phone.

**♡ tim ♡**

**Today, at 3:32**

**> **Keep him. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives.

“What the hell?” Tim tilted his head. 

“I think I have a statement from Jane Prentiss… somewhere. I’ll try to find it. Jurgen’s organization skills are… difficult to understand. I also will _definitely_ talk to Elias about security, although I’m sure… I’m sure it’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll need to talk to Jon and Sasha about this, though.” Martin mumbled most of this to himself, but Tim was listening. Someone else was too, Martin noticed, as the whir of the tape recorder filled the silence. He let out a quiet “Oh!” before shutting it off.

**_[Click.]_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i know that all of the L's in "sleep" and "sleeves" and such are capitalized. that is my computer being rude. i have been trying to fix it but to no avail. please just ignore it for now, hopefully it will not happen in other chapters.


	4. killing time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of a short filler chapter, but the next one is gonna be way longer! sorry for the long wait- schools started back up so i have less time to write. i promise there's more on the way! :D

Thoughts bounced around in Jon’s head as he held his face in his hands. This is too much, truly. When so many of these statements were pure nonsense, why did it continue to make his head spin and make him nauseous from migraines? Was it because they were so obviously fictitious, that they made the mind of a failed actor turn into mush? Or was it because deep down, Jon truly felt they made sense, that they were real? 

No, no, that couldn’t be possible. People getting eaten by the sky and people that are replaced- That’s not a thing that's normal, that doesn’t make sense, it’s _not right._ There had to be an explanation to it all that made more sense. But with the headache pounding into his skull, he wasn’t going to make any progress in figuring this out. He needs a break. 

Jon pulled a ring of identical silver keys from his pocket, running his finger over the ridges of the keys. After two tries, he finds the one he’s looking for and slides it into the keyhole to the Archive Backroom. The bronze knob turns without much resistance. He blinks, trying to remember if he left the door unlocked, pushing it open quickly. What was on the other side leaves him shocked, eyes wide.

“Oh! Hello Jon!”

“Tim?”

Sitting on the couch is the smug bastard himself, Tim, with his feet propped onto the coffee table. There are takeout bins scattered across the room, files taken and strewn randomly, some paper even being left on the floor. Jon blinks, words turning to air as he tries to think of something, anything, to say.

“Am I in your way? Oh, I. I guess Martin didn’t tell you? I uh… I’m staying in the Archives! Overnight? Like… All the time. Or at least, until we know for sure that Prentiss is gone. Which, honestly, I don’t know if that's gonna happen any time soon.”

“Wh- He- What- _What???_ ” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose as he processed the information. 

“I guess I probably should’ve remembered that Martin said this was _your_ area. He said you wouldn’t mind, but uh, you kinda look like you’re minding. Which is completely fair! I’ll clean up, don’t worry. Oh- You probably came in here for a reason, didn’t’cha? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stop talking,” Jon snapped suddenly, realizing immediately that he was using the same tone that his grandmother would reprimand him for. “Please, I just… ugh.”

Tim nodded, standing quickly from his position and hurrying over to usher Jon onto the couch. He placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders softly- big strong hands- sitting him down and pulling the fuzzy orange and yellow blanket from off the back of the couch and around Jon. 

“You’re making the face you do when you’ve got a migraine,” Tim spoke in a hushed tone, smiling softly. “Do you want me to turn the overheads off? There’s a little lamp in the corner I can turn on instead, the light is warmer so it should keep the strain down.”

Jon simply nodded, cuddling into the stiff cushions of the couch and the blanket as best he could. Tim always knew what to do when he had a migraine- sure, the cleanliness of the room stressed Jon to hell and back, but it was _Tim._ Jon could always trust Tim.

After Tim stood and turned the fluorescent lights off, flipping on the floor lamp in the corner, Jon exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Tim found his place right back beside Jon, and Jon gladly cuddled into him. Tim pet his overgrown hair softly, the two just relishing in silence. 

“So… How’s it goin’, Jon?”

Jon thought for a moment. It was such a simple question, but there were so many answers that Jon could use to describe “how it was goin’.” Tiring? Stressful? _Exhausting_? 

“mm. Bad.” is what he settles on.

Tim shifts in a way to hold him tighter. “I understand.”

That's all they need. Communication wasn’t a very important thing when it came to Jon and Tim- they made most of their feelings clear through action. Sure, a bit of verbal affirmation here and there was nice, but it wasn’t something they fretted over. Tim knew well that he was _not_ good at talking (contrary to popular belief), and Jon knew that sometimes he talked himself into a hole. Little moments like this- sitting in the dark, quietly, sharing warmth and synced breaths- were what their relationship was built on. And it was fine the way it was. 

+++ ♡ +++

After his migraine had died down, Jon quickly got back to work. Martin had asked him to do research on Drugoy Tsirk, or Another Circus, some group in Russia. As he pulls manages to uncover a photo, he hears a voice on the other side of his door.

“How the hell is he going to send me down here without telling me where to go? I don’t know where the bloody Archivist’s office is. Ugh.”

Jon stands quickly from his desk, making his way over to the door and peeking out into the hallway. Doing so startles the owner of the voice- a shorter woman with a muscular build and close-cropped blonde hair. 

“Christ. You scared the shit outta me.” Her thick Welsh accented words came out in a mumble. “You uh… You the boss of this joint? Ya’ look like ya’ could be. Got the graying hair, the grandma glasses… Could be an ‘archivist’ or whatever that means.”

Jon blinks. “What? No- No, I’m. I’m not the head archivist. I think you’re looking for Martin- Are you here for a statement?”

“Guess that’s what you lot would call it, sure. Long as you keep it confidential.” She shrugged, crossing her arms over her open button-up shirt. Jon only then noticed the band logo on her tank top.

Then the words processed. “Confidential? I mean, yes, it is company policy to keep statements private, but why would that be an issue?”

The woman rolled her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t have time for this. Where’s this ‘Martin’ guy?” 

“Ah- I’ll show you. It’s easy to get lost down here.” Jon motioned for her to follow him, shutting the office door and making his way down the hall.  
  


“I’ll say. The tall old guy- skinnier than a stick? He’s your boss, isn’t he? The head of this joint? What’s his name… Elliott?”

“Elias. Yes, he’s our boss. Higher than me, higher than Martin. Let me guess, he just brought you down here without any indicator of where to go?”

She scoffed lightly. “He do this before?”

Jon shook his head as they approached the archivist’s office. The glass of the door had the mosaic of the institute’s logo- an owl- in green and yellow tones. “No, but it seems like something he’d pull.” He’s about to knock on the door, when he stops himself. A thought skitters across his mind, but he waves it away quickly.

“What?”

“Ah- um- sorry, but I didn’t catch your name. I’m Jon.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, before reaching to shake her hand.

The blonde woman looks at it for a moment, before nodding and returning the handshake with a firm grip.

“Oh. Uh. Daisy. People call me Daisy.”


	5. triptych in decay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: unreality, medical / medical abuse, military, physical violence, gore, torture, police, 
> 
> remember kids! ACAB.

Martin looked up from his computer when he heard Jon’s voice outside his door. He never knocked, he just made his presence known before asking to come in. There was someone with him, Martin realized, so he could only assume someone had come to give a statement. With a sigh, he closed his laptop and pulled the tape recorder from the drawer in his desk, setting it on the table. 

“Come in, Jon.”

Jon opens the door slowly, peeking his head in. “You aren’t busy, are you, Martin?”

“Not this time.” Martin recalled a few weeks ago when he had been recording a statement, and Jon walked in unannounced. They had made an agreement to knock, or at least announce themselves, before they would come into each other's offices. 

“It was nice to meet you, er, Daisy.” Jon held the door open for the broad-shouldered woman, presumably Daisy.

“You really are the king of awkward, you know that?” Her tone and words were harsh, but she cracked a smile. Jon shrugged, before showing himself out. 

As soon as Jon was gone, there was a tenseity in the air. Martin didn’t know how to describe it- just the way that Daisy looked at him made him shift uncomfortably in his swivel seat.

“You the archivist?” She asked, tilting her head. Martin didn’t have to follow her gaze to know that she was looking him over.

“Y… Yes? Uh. You… Name, please? Uh. And… Why you’re here?” Martin fumbled over his words, facepalming in his mind. Man, he really is not cut out for the social aspect of this job.

“Officer Daisy Tonner. You lot deal with the ‘paranormal’ or whatever, dont’cha?” She pulled out the chair from the opposite side of Martin’s desk and sat down. Daisy obviously didn’t talk with her hands much, but there were air quotes purely in her tone.

“Yes, yes that is what we do. Oh- um- Officer Tonner?” Martin held his finger over the record button. “You… wouldn’t mind me recording this, would you?”

“It’s Daisy. Do what’cha want. ‘S long as it stays  _ confidential.  _ I don’t wanna haf’ta come after your sorry ass if you let it get out that I might be looney.”

**_[Click.]_ **

“Okay! Um. Martin Blackwood, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0160112. Statement of Officer Daisy Tonner, regarding… um… what was it?”

“A call for trespassing over in Rotherham, specifically the C.F. Booth scrap metal and recycling yard, on July 20th, 2016.”

“Statement begins.”

“Guess I should preface this by tellin’ ya that in the police, there’s this thing called Section 31. When we see weird paranormal bull, we’re supposed to investigate it on our own and then lock it up if we can’t get any sorta normalcy out of it. It’s obviously not the most ethical way of doing it, but that’s just the force for you.

“Anywho. If ya’ haven’t heard of the old recycling yard, it’s one of the biggest train graveyards in the UK. With that bein’ said, it’s a hotspot for crime. We get called down there almost every two months, which is kind of a lot. They’ve got high security, barbed wires an’ cameras an’ lights. But we still get called down there every once in a while.

“I was in Rotherham just doing a bit of detective work for a case I won’t specify, since it’s really none of your business anyway. Then my radio goes off, tellin me we’ve got a 602L, and they need anyone who is close enough to check it out. It didn’t really hit me at the time, but the voice I heard didn’t sound like the normal dispatch. I ignored it at the time. I’m by myself, my partner is back at the station, but I’ve seen enough of the kinds of people who break into that junkyard to know I’m safe. Most of the time, it’s just stupid teenagers or adrenaline junkies who like the attention, and are dumb enough to think that they can get away with it. Spoiler alert; they never do.

“By the time I got there, all the lights were off except for the security lights that keep out the freaks. My radio was bein’ faulty again, and kept cuttin’ out any intel I might’a been receiving. That wasn’t new, but it just progressively got worse the closer I got to the yard. When I pulled up to the joint, the guards asked me how I could help ‘em. Which was… weird. Whenever I try to remember their faces, my head gets all… fuzzy. I’m trying not to focus on that part too much. I assumed at the time that the shift had changed, and they didn't know about the intruder. Looking back on it, that doesn’t make much sense, does it? Heh.

“I could’a turned around right then. I should’a. But I didn’t, because I thought I would’ve at least heard sirens before I got there, or gotten a call, or  _ something.  _ But I didn’t get anything, so I assumed the perp must still be in there, wanderin’ ‘round, touchin’ stuff they aren’t supposed to. So I asked to go in, an’ they let me. 

“There were more trains in there than I thought there’d be. Which, truthfully, made sense. It was a junkyard for a reason. If a train hadn’t been broken down yet, it was about to be. Didn’t see any rusty metal at that front half. I kept checkin’ in on my radio, askin’ for dispatch, but the damn thing just kept… cracklin’ at me. Makin’ static noises. Shit was startin’ to piss me off, so I eventually stopped tryin’. Had to dodge the security lights a few times, I guess since the guy was still in there. If he tripped ‘em, it could lead me straight to wherever he might’a been. Make my job a lot easier.

“I brought my torch with me, but dustin’ it over the shadows of the skeletons of old passenger cars and freights. With the sky as dark as it was, it was hard to tell what was my torch castin’ shadows, and what I actually saw. Every once in a while, I thought I’d seen a face peerin’ at me through the old cracked windows. But as soon as I’d shine my light on em, there’d be nothin’ there. 

“As I was makin’ my way through the yard, checkin under heaps and in boxcars, I realized that the deeper I went, the stronger I could smell iron. Not the metal kind, not copper, not rust. Blood. I know the smell all too well, being an officer in the force an’ all. Not a fan of it, obviously, but I was startin’ to get antsy. Thought maybe the perp was closer to the source, like maybe whatever it was had drawn them closer. 

“Eventually, I found what I thought might be the boxcar the smell was comin’ from. It was rancid, really. I’ve smelled some stale blood in my days, but I’ve never been hit with such a scent of decay. Felt like I was suffocatin’, like the scent itself had wrapped its decaying, boney hands around my throat and was suckin’ the life outta me. The old car looked like it was heavier than it shoulda been, like it was carryin’ this weight that an abandoned passenger car shouldn’t carry. The old thing was almost featureless, ‘cept the lil’ specks of olive green paint that had chipped away. Not much rust, surprisingly, as the thing looked like it had been sittin’ there for centuries. The roof was curved, slightly, like it coulda’ been a dome or a sunroof or somethin. Reminded me of the old military cars I used to see pictures of hung in the office.

“Walked around the side to look for the door, and I almost didn’t see it. The damn thing was windowless, a sliding door that looked like it’d be a bitch to open. My torch caught on somethin’ stickin’ out of the panelling, and I realized it might be somethin’ to hold onto. I didn’t come prepared enough for any evidence collectin’- I was there to catch an idiot, not solve a murder- so I just had to pocket it. If it ended up bein’ important, I’d just let my boss maul me over it when the time came. 

“When I first tried to open the door, I realized that whoever had broken in here was  _ not  _ in this train car. Unless they were stupid, and incredibly strong. I didn’t want to take any chances. I was this far in already, and I wanted to know what was in that goddamn car. So, ignoring the horrid sound of metal scraping against metal, I slid open the door and shined my torch in there.

“I didn’t like how at first, it felt like my torch didn’t do anything. That should’a been my sign, to get the fuck out and go home. There were so many bloody signs to get the fuck out. But the mind of a detective… It’s hard to stop wanting to know more. The walls on the inside were just like the ones on the outside, the same dull metal. I went to step inside, thinkin’ maybe if I were closer I’d see more, but then my torch hit the dripping thick crimson leaking from the now open entrance, and I stopped dead in my tracks.

“I followed the stream with my light up into the cart, and while passing the red dragging streaks, it hit what I know as an old metal hospital gurney. The stretchers, whatever you call ‘em. The fabric that covered it was the same old military green as the paint chips on the outside of the car. And on top of it was a white cotton body bag, stained dark black at the bottom. Whatever was inside twisted and writhed as if it were in pain, but all I could hear was the fabric rustling.

“I thought about running, but I almost flinched as a dark figure bolted from the left side of the dark car to the body. There was a silver glint in it’s hands, one that shone against my torch. It stopped moving long enough for me to see what it was- a man i think, roughly 25, dressed in an army uniform. On his raising arm, I saw a white medical band, but it quickly smashed down as he plunged the scalpel into the body bag. Over. And over. And over. I looked at his eyes, and they… They were the strangest thing about him. I’ve seen a lot of weird shit within the Section 31 protocol. But I’ve never seen someone look so deranged, so violent. I’ve never seen the shine in someone’s eyes be blood red.

“I… I hate to admit it, but I froze. I froze in place, and I couldn’t move as his head snapped towards me and he lunged. It wasn’t until I hit the ground and he plunged the scalpel into my shoulder that I was brought to my senses, and I was able to fight back. I knocked him in the teeth a couple times, brought a knee to his stomach, and rolled away and held my shoulder. I think I screamed. After that, I think I blacked out, and when I woke back up the two guards from earlier were carrying me. They were mocking me, I think, because I was ‘cussing at air’ and ‘ranting about ghosts,’ but I didn’t care. I looked back to the military train car before I blacked out again. I think it was empty.”

“Statement… Statement ends.”

**_[Click.]_ **

Daisy sighed, holding her head in her hand. “Be honest with me, Martin. How much of that do you believe?”

Martin blinked. “Huh?”

“I told two of my coworkers about the train. Neither of ‘em believe me. They said that there was never a call down in Rotherham, and that my story doesn’t make  _ sense. _ ”

“Well- I uh-” Martin panicked slightly, feeling like if he were to say the wrong thing, the officer on the other side of the desk would cut him in half. But he also felt like if he sat on his tongue for too long, she’d still cut him in half. “I don’t really know. I haven’t seen the junkyard in Rotherham myself, and theres research we’d need to do for it to  _ really  _ make sense, and-”

“You need evidence?” Daisy slid her open button-up shirt off of her shoulders and started to wrap it around her waist. There on her shoulder was a bandage, wrapped at awkward angles to fit the wound. Before Martin could even protest, she tore the bandages off to show it, in it’s grotesque way. “It’ll heal eventually. Not deep enough to cause any real damage, beside my arm hurtin’ like hell, but still enough to scar.” Martin’s jaw dropped, and it was hard for him to form the words he was looking for. She shrugged with her healed shoulder. “Injuries are just somethin’ ya sign up for when ya go into the force.”

Martin nodded, slowly. “What about that… thing you found. In the door.”

“What, this?” Daisy reached in her pocket and pulled a scrap of metal that somewhat resembled a dog tag. On it was a serial number, stencilled in black paint. “Looked it up. ‘Parently it was from World War Two, the eleventh US Army Hospital Train. Operated in the European Theatre in August, 1944. Articles I read said that the crew was commended for their service.”

“Yeah, but that’s what every article says about the military or the force.” Martin mumbled.

Daisy glared daggers in return. “What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. You were saying it like there was more?”

Rolling her eyes, Daisy leaned against the back of her chair and crossed her arms. “Damn thing crashed in 1945. Derailed or whatever, killed five of the crew and fourteen of ‘em were injured. Supposedly though, there weren’t any patients onboard. This one, I assume, was the only steel car that avoided gettin’ derailed.”

Martin nodded, slowly, trying to figure out what to do with all this information.

“I’m not comin’ here to vent to you like your my bloody therapist, so don't get the wrong idea. I’m just here to see if maybe, in this freaky little archives, you’ve got more information. I know damn well the police didn’t have anything they’d let me see. They’re tryin’a write me off as delusional.” Daisy snapped quickly leaning over the desk and pointing an accusational finger at Martin. 

“I-I’m not saying that! I literally did not say a word!” Martin tensed, flinching away from her. “Calm down, please, I- I’ll see what I can find. I don’t know if we have anything that you’re looking for, but as long as you  _ calm down,  _ I promise that we can help you figure it out. I’m not writing you off as delusional, I see your scar, I see your tag,  _ I believe you. _ I just need you to calm down.”

The woman on the other side of the table grabbed Martin by the front of his jumper, yanking him close and causing him to yelp. “Don’t tell me to bloody  _ calm down. _ I… I… Wait. You… You believe me?” His words processed slowly in her mind, and she loosened her grip.

“ _ Yes!  _ Jesus christ, yes, I believe you! Daisy, please, let me go.” The archivist gently took her wrist in his hands. Daisy slowly eased her grasp and eventually let go of him, sliding back into her seat. 

She sat silently. She’d never admit it, but Daisy already started to regret asking the institute for help.

Martin frowned. “Listen, Daisy… I understand being frustrated. Feeling like no one is listening to you. I understand what it’s like for people to act like your problems aren’t as big as they seem.” He chose his words slowly, even though the conversation was something he had already had with himself in the mirror for weeks in a row. He exhaled a breath he realized he was holding for too long. “Would… you like some tea?”

Daisy sat still for a moment. “Yeah. Sounds good."


End file.
